


whether by knife

by skaggirl



Category: Funny Games (2007), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Will Graham, Dubious Consent, Gore, However they're not cannibals! So that's good, M/M, Most morally abhorrent thing I've ever written. Severely fucked up. I'm not kidding about this., Murder, Oral Sex, POV Third Person Limited to Victim - Please proceed with caution! This stuff can be triggering!, Power Imbalance, Psychological Torture, Snowballing, Top Hannibal Lecter, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 23:36:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12851949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skaggirl/pseuds/skaggirl
Summary: "In a simpler world, Will thinks, he and Hannibal wouldn’t be the way they are, and they could just kiss and not get bored of each other. That way nobody would die and they could get jobs and families and be okay with all of that, being regular and weak. Those versions of them would strive to be happy—and that naive hopefulness would be enough to get by on."A Hannigram Funny Games AU. This can probably be enjoyed regardless of if you've seen the movies; just picture a couple of entitled teenagers in white yachting outfits murdering a family and there you have it!





	whether by knife

**Author's Note:**

> It's emphasized that Will and Hannibal look young because that's the gist of the two movies, but I assure you that they're both in their early to mid-20s. The age difference is severely reduced, so I'd place them maybe a couple of years apart. All other details of their relationship are up to interpretation. Whatever suits you best!

The taller boy—the foreign one—looks like he hasn’t grown into his eyes yet, like he’s far more inexperienced in true suffering than his actions would suggest. The sergeant’s wife, a former working class mother, believes that she may be able to reason with him. After all, she knows young boys like the back of her hand. Boys are more impressionable than girls. This boy—with his large, childlike doe eyes—can’t possibly comprehend the severity of his actions, she believes, up until the moment he hangs her husband, the sergeant, and smiles despite the man’s struggle for air that lasts a brutal minute that seems to drag on for years. They’d not allowed him the kindness of a broken neck.

“How old would you bet he was, Jerry?” lilts the taller boy. His friend, the curly-haired boy, emerges from where he’s been cowering against the wall. His tight lips suggest that he isn’t finding as much enjoyment in this as his insolent counterpart is.

“Probably mid-60s, Tom. He had grandkids,” the boy explains. Another soft, bare-faced child… but this one sounds American. The sergeant’s wife cries out loudly through the cloth they’ve used to gag her.

“Right,” the other affirms so clinically that it resembles a diagnosis, “upwards of 60 years. He marries his wife, has children, becomes a veteran, has a home, a vacation home, grandchildren, secures his legacy… and all for _what_? To go out like _that_ ,” he snaps his wiry fingers, “not with a bang but with… a…”

The American picks up on his cue. “Whimper,” he says. The foreign boy grins at him, and the sergeant’s wife thrashes her body, though she knows it’s useless. Bound as she is, she would barely be able to muster the strength to stand nonetheless fight if she thought it liable to make any progress in her direction. The two young men would crush her in a heartbeat. Still, she thrashes.

The American expresses brief concern and rushes to the woman’s side. _White shorts, white gloves, white polo shirt_ she notes, then the American tugs her back against the sofa by her hand restraints. The foreigner admires the other’s effort but doesn’t leave the side of the sergeant’s purple corpse, dangling from the bannister of the staircase, which he playfully shoves to get a rise out of the dead man’s wife. The sergeant sways back and forth as stiffly as a puppet. The woman aches all over in grief, raucous sobs escaping her, remembering the man who had been replaced by the cadaver in front of her. Though she wants to keep fighting for the sake of self-preservation, she goes limp against the young American. Almost mockingly, he begins to smooth her hair down.

“Don’t worry, ma’am. You won’t have to look much longer.” Though it’s the American boy who’s comforting her, these words come from the composed foreigner.

Swiftly, the boy at her side begins to remove the woman’s gag. “Is this alright?” he asks, and the other nods in affirmation. The woman hesitates to speak what’s on her mind: this boy could be kind, could be successful like her own son, if he wasn’t under the spell of this other demon, the contemptuous man who obviously exercises great power over him. Yet the foreign boy is standing above them both—her persuasion is worth nothing against his. So she keeps quiet, only making those pained sounds which she can’t contain within her. She finally begins to comprehend, for the first time during this long night, that she will have to die before the nightmare can end.

“Please, I beg you—if you’re gonna kill me, then make it quick.”

The demon man, the foreign child, doesn’t react physically. It’s almost more sinister to know that he is entirely unphased by her increased desperation—she is reduced in humanity to nothing but a device. She is a means to an end. But then, the foreign boy moves in on her and seats himself on the coffee table at her feet. “Did your husband deserve efficient?” he asks.

“Tell me, Jerry: do you think the sergeant deserved a painless death?”

“I don’t know what he deserved,” mumbles the simple American.

“You don’t know… correct. Because you didn’t know him, so how could you know what he deserves?” The foreigner bobs his head in delight. He’s proud. He has immense pride in the other boy, like he would a pupil. “And now, what do you think the sergeant’s wife deserves?”

“I don’t know, Tom. It doesn’t matter what she deserves.”

At that, the foreigner glows. Obviously the other boy’s answer is correct by his standards. “It doesn’t matter what she deserves…” he repeats. His attention is redirected to the woman, who’s now situated beneath him. “It doesn’t matter what _you_ deserve, ma’am, because you belong to us now. You will live however we want you to live, up until you die however we choose for you to die.” The American boy remains idle at her side, not agreeing but not refuting this brand of slaughter, either. She wonders fleetingly what the point of it all is. Why would anybody want so much blood on their hands? And, as if she’d spoken out loud, her answer comes sickeningly confidently. “I hope you understand that this mess, the trauma, is all part of the price that must be paid for cheap entertainment.” The ailing woman cries out again.

“Now, Jerry,” continues the foreigner, rising from his seat, “since you’ve done so well, I figure we can share this one. I had my turn. Now you get yours.” The American also rises, meets his eyes tentatively, then turns to observe the woman. Livestock.

He hesitates to give his answer. He appears to be questioning a choice he’s made internally that sits on the tip of his tongue, opening then closing his mouth like a fish vacuuming in water. Demanding an answer, the foreign boy slaps him upside the head. The American jolts but shakes his curls back into place and regains his composure.

“Let’s take her out to the dock,” he says.

So the two lift the woman by her shoulders, dragging her mercilessly out the patio door and down toward the boat docks. It’s been raining, so the ground is damp and muddy, which the foreign boy briefly complains about. _White shoes._ The sergeant’s wife feels a flint of thankfulness surge through her chest once she realizes that it’s not yet light outside. The duo had told her and her husband (God save him) that the torture could go on until far into the evening after. 12 hours, they’d promised. But there were only two victims, and they’d been too old and tired to put up a good fight. Only so long until boredom struck.

Once they reach the wood, the American boy releases his hold on their victim. He rushes up to the sergeant’s boat, tied neatly with a bowline. The foreigner grasps the sergeant’s wife beneath her chin, letting her fall to her knees and struggle against him. Their words so polite but their actions utterly inhumane. “Thank God,” sighs the American, “it’s got a motor.” Then he motions for the other and they haul the woman into the small structure.

Though she’s no longer gagged, the woman chooses not to speak. Her captors continue babbling smalltalk. The American boy unties the boat, and the two seat themselves on opposite sides of her mangled form, splayed out across the seat.

“I think you’d better say a final prayer.”

“Fuck you,” spits the lurid woman—while, masked behind her anger, she recites: _thank you for the time I had, for the man I loved, for the children I gave birth to, for their children who are my grandchildren, for the ones I’ll never know. Thank you for my career, my retirement, my success. Thank you for the opportunity, thank you for blessing my son with two loving parents, thank you, thank you, and do not let my death be in vain._

The foreign boy nods to his friend, _do it_ , and the woman squeezes her eyes shut, braces for the fall, but nothing comes. The tender-hearted American boy sits still, not acknowledging the others. His companion humphs and kneels in front of him. “Will, look at me.” Bitter realization comes for the sergeant’s wife that, in all of this twisted perversion, in all utter disgust she feels at the thought of this being true, that her husband’s murder, and her own murder, and the murder of other families before them, were all formative of a courting ritual from the foreign boy to the American. “What motivates you to take a life? Is it power, Will? Or is it cowardice?”

Will, the American, runs a hand over his tired face, sighs. He exchanges a long glance with his friend—his manipulator—whose haunting eyes now look inviting. Moments later, he takes the sergeant’s wife’s face in his hand and holds her softly to admit to her, “I’m sorry that you had to experience this all, miss,” and in a final chance at redemption, the woman spits a string of saliva across Will’s face. He shoves her chest so that she plunges backward into the lake, silently.

“Well done,” celebrates Hannibal. He removes one of his white gloves and uses it to wipe the liquid from Will’s blank expression. When Will’s skin is clean, Hannibal tosses his used glove overboard, to join the wife.

“Looks like we’re done for the day, unless I’m to go around using only one hand to do my deeds.” Hannibal wiggles his white gloved fingers eagerly.

“Isn’t that evidence you just dropped next to the body?” asks Will, whose concern is never matched by Hannibal.

The older boy smiles at Will, parts Will’s knees which are level to his chest and rises up between them, meeting him face to face. “No motive. No cause for concern. We’re charming, well-off, college-educated young men. Do you really need to worry so often?”

Will scoots back on the bench in attempt to distance himself. “Speak for yourself,” he snarks. But Hannibal still snakes his one bare hand underneath Will’s polo, their matching shirts still immaculately white despite the events of the day. He feels the faint scar on Will’s stomach and is overcome with excitement at the memory of putting it there.

“Why did you hesitate so much, Will?”

“She reminded me of someone,” he admits, though he’d rather not be picturing his mother’s tearful face right now.

“Well, she was weak and she was rude. She had it coming.” He pulls his hand out from Will’s shirt and uses it to abuse the boy’s head again, seeking any excuse to get his hands in Will’s long hair. It wasn’t always long, but Hannibal certainly prefers it at this length. Regardless, Will feels ashamed when the other hits him, so he hits back this time. “Stop doing that,” he fusses. All Hannibal can give in return is another condescending smile, but then he stretches up to kiss Will, and they both allow it to happen freely.

From then on, Hannibal readies himself for an arrangement that Will never agreed to, a circumstance that he invented entirely out of his own greed. He starts to remove Will’s shirt until the younger man asks him to _leave it on, I’m cold_. It’s then that it occurs to Hannibal that it’s still the early morning, and that the sun is slowly rising and it won’t be there to warm them, but they’re so far from land that he’d rather stay and substitute the light for body heat, so he sinks down to Will’s fly and undoes it and pulls his cock out, incessantly pulling the boy in every which way. “I don’t want to,” says Will, attempting to eject Hannibal though he’s already evidently hard. But Hannibal grips him firmly and sinks his mouth around him regardless. “Don’t—not in their boat.” He clasps his legs around Hannibal’s shoulders. “Too many fluids,” he mutters. “If I—that’s a dead giveaway.”

Hannibal groans at Will’s unyielding insistence on being cautious, though he respects it all the same—hell, he’d probably be set back a couple of days worth of progress if he didn’t have Will with him to take all things into consideration. He has a uniquely precise mind, even in comparison to Hannibal.

“Then I’ll make sure to not let anything escape,” assures Hannibal, and Will practically forces himself back onto Hannibal at that point, uncaring.

The older boy makes quick work of getting Will off. He knows what he likes best. The more skin Hannibal covers, the better, and the sooner Will’s balls tighten to the extent that nothing has ever been more obvious to Hannibal than the inevitability of another person’s orgasm. Hannibal forces half his hand worth of fingers into Will’s mouth, which the younger accepts ecstatically, and uses his other hand—the gloved one—to wriggle Will’s shorts and boxers down to his ankles, where they conceal his pathetically muddy deck shoes, Hannibal gleefully notes. Then he removes his wet fingers and drags a couple up Will’s perineum and over his hole, and Will’s heart is beating so powerfully that Hannibal almost swears he can feel it inside him.

He fingers Will and sucks him off while Will leans over the edge of the boat, bucking his hips up and inward, giving and receiving and giving and receiving. Hannibal delights in his enthusiasm like he delighted in his willingness to execute whole families like sheep. He uses three fingers despite a slight struggle. “Tell me when you’re close,” demands Hannibal, prodding harder with his fingers than he’d previously expected that Will could take.

“I’ve _been_ close,” Will utters belligerently. His prostate is past the point of comfortable stimulation and the harder Hannibal works, the greater he wants nothing more than to come down his throat. He sweats while Hannibal helps him by going harder and faster, everything more intensely felt. 

Finally, _finally_ , Will finds release. His spine straightens out and he lays flat against the cold metal of the bench, regaining his breath, while Hannibal removes his fingers and his mouth simultaneously, and in a matter of seconds he’s completely gone and then back again. Though Will’s eyes are still shut, he feels the heat of the other against his face. When Hannibal leans down to kiss him, Will opens his mouth to a lump of his own bitter flavor, his ejaculate on his tongue. He peers up to find Hannibal’s sinister smirk urging him to _do it, I dare you_. So Will swallows. He doesn’t even hesitate.

Again prideful of his obedient disciple, Hannibal mouths his way down Will’s chin and neck. For all of the pain they cause each other, the kisses are always sweet. They’re always felt deeply. In a simpler world, Will thinks, he and Hannibal wouldn’t be the way they are, and they could just kiss and not get bored of each other. That way nobody would die and they could get jobs and families and be okay with all of that, being regular and weak. Those versions of them would strive to be happy—and that naive hopefulness would be enough to get by on.

In the here and now, though, this version of Hannibal hasn’t gotten off, and his patience has always been limited. At least he was kind enough not to make a mess, Will acknowledges.

Hannibal jerks Will around by his hips and lays him out on all fours across the center of the teetering boat. He spits into his hand and rubs himself, the bare minimum lubrication, and thrusts himself upon Will, not asking or affirming or showing any ounce of politeness, only taking what he wants. Will thinks back: _you belong to us now_. He’s unsure of how willingly he’d give himself over to Hannibal. If the other wanted to make him the victim, he’d surely delight in his own torture. _Whether by knife or whether by gun, losing your life can sometimes be fun_.

The knowledge is dizzying that _this_ is what Hannibal gets off on: the blood, the spit, the semen, the slaughter. Will wishes he didn’t enjoy it nearly as much as Hannibal does, but he can’t contain the lust he feels for it. It takes the last bit of integrity he has left to not beg for it vocally. And finally Hannibal pushes in, grips Will’s hip with the bare hand and braces the side of the boat with the other. He works so meticulously that it surprises Will when he begins to move quicker. The younger is barely stretched, and he feels like coiling into himself though he knows he can’t. If he angered Hannibal, that would mean no more games, no more time together, no more power trips. He’d be meek again, like he was before Hannibal showed him his potential. So, instead, he waits for his body to give itself over freely… and then it does. Will is elated.

The older pulls him up so that they’re chest to back, fondling each other. He breathes loudly over Will’s shoulder, using Will’s body as leverage to balance his own body against, rolling his hips methodically to maximize his gruesome pleasure. The sun has risen, Will notes, and is now high in the sky. Their motorboat is totally visible for other residents who may like to spend their mornings on the water. The possibility of being caught out in the open thrills him, for once.

Hannibal doesn’t pull out to come, of course, because he intends to fulfill his promise not to let anything escape. Instead, he pumps his fluid as deep inside of the other as he can manage. Will sighs out of pure relief, loving the sensation of being filled, though he knows he’ll hate it once he stands and senses the outpour, once the substance dries to his legs and boxers.

“That will _always_ be the most thrilling act,” says Hannibal, slowly inching his way out of Will’s hole. He kisses Will once more on the neck, a final kindness of the night before they’ll inevitably return to their dynamic of Tom and Jerry or Peter and Paul. Hannibal, always Tom, is the goliath tomcat, and Will is the prey to a fault. Hannibal handles his soft cock carefully, ensures that they leave the boat unscathed, and fondly remembers the woman they carried, hands and feet bound, and laid out on this same surface. Will is hard again, but the unspoken rule is that he’ll have to take care of it on his own, if at all.

The younger is already incredibly sore when he rises and dresses himself. He surprises himself to see he’s not bleeding. He has to steer the boat back toward the sergeant’s vacation home dock. Will knows boats about as well as he knows himself, so it’s a comfort to be in contact with one, and on the short trip back, they spot another elderly couple from the neighboring house having their breakfast on a patio dining set. Hannibal lifts one hand to greet them, and the wife, like the sergeant’s wife before her, smiles warmly back at him. They don’t ask who the two young men are. They’re lucky that Hannibal threw down his glove.

Will wants to say, _they’ll remember we were here_ , but he doesn’t allow himself to worry. If anything, they’ll be back before concern is raised about the families who haven’t returned any calls, et cetera.

“Nobody will make it out alive.” 

Will hums his agreement.

Once they reach dry land, Hannibal hops out of the motorboat and assigns the task of tying it down to Will.

Nights like this, when they end, the two of them will part ways. They’ll see each other again, but they’ll only know who the other person is when that person is with them. Will aches to know if Hannibal is anybody else when he’s with his family, and _does he have friends?_ And if he does, do they understand the full extent of Hannibal’s control over all of the happenings in the world? Do they know that Hannibal likes to play God, and would they guess that Will has tried out being a god, too? Will briefly wonders if the sergeant’s wife died a painful death, or if it was peaceful like she begged for it to be. He hopes they don’t pass by the sergeant’s body on the way out. All of the fun would be a distant memory, and the sight of it would depress him. 

“Let me come with you,” pleads Will, insecure in the fact that he’ll so readily admit these truths to his only friend and partner in crime. “I’ll do anything you ask me to,” he chokes out. But that isn’t the point of the lesson. In fact, subservience is only allowed when Hannibal is beckoning for a task to be done, not the other way around. The lesson is far more obscure than Will could ever imagine or learn of it. Part of the foreigner’s philosophy is that nobody should matter more to you than yourself alone. _You belong to me now. You will live however I want you to live, up until you die however I choose for you to die._ The meaning of it all is that it’s meaningless.

Hannibal kicks mud up on his way uphill, grimacing while the mess grows bigger. Bleach won’t get that much dark out. He’ll have to spend extra time on his shoes.

“Please, Hannibal. I don’t have anything else that matters.”

Hannibal stops in his tracks, dismissing the words he’d heard by way of a shared silence, and rubs a hand across his brow.

“You’re disgusting,” he finalizes, and leaves Will stranded on the dock, despondent.

**Author's Note:**

> Please please leave a comment if you enjoyed this! I've always been too nervous to post fic in the Hannibal fanbase because it has some straight up incredibly talented and sophisticated fans that I know I could never compare to, but this was so fun and immersive for me that I couldn't help but post it. The story means a lot to me and I really hope it does good things for you as a reader.


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